Convincing Sally
by Caighlee
Summary: Sally was so sure she had done the right thing, turning Sherlock in. So why was her stomach churning?And why does she suddenly become interested in graffiti?


Everything was shite after Sherlock's death. Plain and simple.

Reporters swarmed over anybody who knew, or who thought they _had_ known, Sherlock. Especially the people who had been in weekly contact with him. Then there were also people who held serious jobs who lost all credentials and strength at work – Angelo and Lestrade mainly. Lestrade was ruined through and through but he still showed up occasionally, sneaking his old team some help when he could. And apparently Sherlock had an older brother but nothing was seen or heard of him yet.

Donovan couldn't find it in herself to care. The Freak was gone; she'd done the right thing. So, why did she feel so bad?

Maybe it had something to do with Lestrade? Seeing him being broken down and pulled apart by the actions of a man who just wanted some sort of grotesque sport. She just couldn't see Lestrade not in his office. Not only had they been friends (as much as one could be friends at the Yard) but he was Yard material, he was _meant_ to be in that office.

Or she might've felt the slightest bit guilty about John. Last she had seen him was at the funeral three weeks ago – he had been a wreck. The only other time she saw him was when she went out – magazines everywhere were talking about Sherlock, and indirectly, John.

Apparently he had started seeing a therapist (again!) and was limping … again. Sally remembered the first time they met, he had the cane and limped a bit awkwardly; it had saddened her to see Sherlock pull him about, it made her want to get him out of Sherlock's clutches even more.

None of the guilt, John's reappearing limp, or _increase_ of murderers and police work all around had anything to do with Sherlock being dead. She was resolute in (trying) to believe that. It was at least easy for Anderson to believe that. But it was hard, and almost … sad, when she found herself at a crime scene and wondering if Sherlock would've hated or loved it.

She was convinced that the only reason she'd ever_ miss_ Sherlock was because he had longer legs than anyone on the force and was usually the one chasing the criminal into their arms; she'd grown lazy and was too used to wearing heels.

At the moment she barely kept to her feet as she tried to chase the burglar of the hour around a corner. Huffing in frustration she kicked her heels off and pushed herself harder, glad she'd worn pants today. A minute later she slammed into him and pushed the struggling man against the brick wall of the back street, puffing out his rights as she cuffed him. She radioed the team and handed him over before going back for her shoes.

As she slipped them back on she balanced herself against the wall, her hand instantly becoming sticky. Disgusted she dared look – her jaw dropped slightly.

There, dripping slightly, was intricate graffiti – she had half a mind to write it up but was too curious. She took a step back to see what it said. Her jaw dropped even more and she laughed breathlessly in disbelief.

'I believe Sherlock Holmes – Brook is a fraud' was stencilled on top of a silhouette of Sherlock.

Dazed, a corner of her mouth quirked up into what might've been a smile, she took her phone out to take a picture; she'd send it to John later.

Sally quickly ran down to a nearby café for lunch later that day and as she paid for her sandwich, a magazine headline caught her eye: 'Watson's disappearing Act'. She quickly added it her pile and headed straight back to the Yard.

After reading the article with a stomach that sank with every line, she looked into it, trying to see just how true the ratty tabloids could really be. All data about John was either for government's eyes only or non-existent, as if John never existed. Shaking she dialled Greg's number. It almost rang out.

"'Ello?" Greg's voice was rough. Hung-over or was he just sleepy?

"Greg? It's me, Sally." She worried her bottom lip and crossed her legs.

"Sally? What's wrong, what's happened?" He was instantly in D.I. mode.

She guessed that it never leaves you. "Nothing. Well, nothing professional. I-," She pressed her fingers to her forehead and made an effort to calm and quiet herself, "John-"

Greg stopped breathing.

She leaned forward, conspiratorially as if he was there. "What do you know? Greg … I know you two were … are? … close. Especially after," she swallowed and motioned with her hand, as if he could see her, "you know."

He snapped at her. "You can say it you know. Aren't you happy Sally? Aren't you just _proud_?" He said it so condescendingly she shrank back into her chair, her gut churning. "You helped bring in the biggest _fraud_," He spit it out and she felt herself growing smaller in her chair. She never liked it when Greg was disappointed or upset with her; this time was not any different, "of the century. I thought you'd want to yell that one to the world."

She tried to speak. "Gre-"

"Look, I don't care what history you had with Sherlock but you _had _to admit, he was bloody good at what he did and a lot of people depended on him … _We_ depended on him." He sighed, some of his steam gone. "Despite what happened Sally I'll never believe that he had a hand in the cases besides solving them – that Richard Brook guy though? He's the fraud." He sounded so worn and old.

And then Sally remembered the graffiti. "I'm sending you something, hold on." It was barely a whisper.

"Wha-"

She quickly messed with her phone, sending the picture to him and bringing the phone back up to her ear. She heard his breath hitch as he opened and looked at the picture. "I wanted to send it to John but I saw a magazine that said he'd pretty much vanished. I looked him up; his file isn't available to _anyone_ who'd care. It's like he never existed. I wanted to know if you knew of anything." The other end was completely silent. "… Greg?"

"I can give you his new number but this is it, no talking – to him or anyone else about it. **Nothing**; do you understand me?"

"Of course, sir." He'd never _not_ be her D.I. He quickly rattled off the number and with a soft goodbye he hung up.

She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. _What the __hell__ was going on?_

As she took a cab back home that night she sent John the picture and emailed it to herself so she could print it (about twenty times) out and post it around work. The next day she proudly put one next to her computer and the rest throughout the building.

Every time she was out now she looked for graffiti or posters. If she found any she's snap a picture and send it to Greg and John.


End file.
